Retribution: Angelic Justice
by Terrarian Creeper
Summary: In a world of peace, an ancient menace has returned from beyond to exacts its unholy revenge upon the world, bringing with it hatred and conflict. The heavens has chosen Darius Loyhrs, a former nobody, to hunt down and defeat the Fallen Angel. Should he fail, all of the universe may plummet into the Void... Rated T for blood and swearing. Revision/expanding in progress. On hiatus.
1. The Birth of Chaos

**Welcome to Retribution! It's my first Fanfic, so don't be too harsh with reviews, please.**

**The story concept is based off of exb759's Fanfic, ****Gone****. It's an excellent read, go look at it. The only directly and intentionally copied effect is the apocalypse; everything else, characters, reasons, plot, is mine and/or Mojang's.**

**I'll do my best to update this one as frequently as possible, but school will probably end that. Anyways, on with the story!**

**UPDATE: Fed. 28 2013, FINALLY updating the crappy first chapter. Much cleaner and better, now!**

**XXX**

Several miles under the oceans, an abandoned and empty castle waited, biding its time. Millennia ago, its owner had been defeated in a vast war. The stronghold left behind continued to stand, left to survive thanks to the remnants of its king's power. The victorious ones had sealed away the king, destined to forever wander in his own twisted dimension. The stronghold was deactivated and buried away, doomed to crumble.

11 thousand years had passed since then.

At the core of the castle, a single room had escaped the merciless wrath of the earth. Still supported by an unseen power, the room contained two glowing pools of lava, glowing eternally and suffusing the room with a dim light. A set of stairs led up to a large dais somehow floating over a massive river of flowing lava. The dais itself was a roughly rectangular object, made up of twelve portions. Each portion was made of a mysterious white stone. Embedded into the top of the sheared-off stones were intricate dark turquoise 'slots,' each one waiting for something.

The entrance to the chamber crumbled as something on the other side smashed into it. For several seconds, there was a small sound of scuffling. A pick abruptly broke the hardened stone, then retreated. Several more hits brought out a small hole. A man stepped through, holding a lamp up as he investigated the room.

In the gloomy half-light, very few of his details could be seen, save for light brown hair that grew to just below his ears, the shotgun in his other hand, and a crisp black business suit, dark red lines glowing imperceptibly. He reached into his coat and procured a brown leather pouch. He opened and pulled out twelve faintly glowing green eyes. Carefully trekking around the dais, he gingerly inserted an eye into each slot with a faint _click._

As one, the eyes spiraled to life, rolling wildly in their new sockets before coming to rest, gazing into the middle of the dais. A black spark formed and expanded into a paper-thin portal, which remained pitch black. One by one, stars began to pop up inside the darkness, moving slowly across its surface. It began to glow, gradually brightening until it was a blinding white. The man continued to watch, undeterred by the light as he waited for the inevitable event. As the light began to shoot out of the portal in plumes of energy, a single figure rose from the depths, and the man's face split into an arrogant sneer. For he had succeeded.

And the Destroyer of Worlds was reborn.

**XXX**

On the surface, order had collapsed, with anarchy rising to rule in its place. None knew why it happened, and no one dared to speculate, if only because they were fighting for their lives. People of authority had been assassinated, countless gunfights broke out on the streets, and destruction swept over the land in a wave of death. In an area known as Jalcuk City, explosions ripped through the air. Buildings were set ablaze by madmen, not caring for whoever may be inside. Gunfire echoed endlessly, screams of the dying sounding off as if responding to each other. There was no more government, no more order – only chaos and anarchy would reign from this day onwards.

In one particular alleyway, a powerful bang rang out as blood splattered several feet up the wall. The owner of the gun lowered it slightly, the muzzle still smoking from the powerful shot. Its owner was a 21-year old, with pitch-black hair and somewhat pale skin. Two sharp brown eyes flickered wildly, roving the alley in case of another ambush. Relaxing, he turned. A dark ankle-length trench coat, so dark gray it was almost black, trailed his movements. Hidden in its recesses were countless durable pockets, for storing any set of equipment imaginable.

"It should be safe – for now," Darius Loyhrs muttered with the slightest hint of a Scottish accent as he reloaded his gun; a Colt Anaconda revolver made specifically for him. Not the best gun, but it was one he had a particular affection with. It was also much bulkier than a standard Anaconda, even by its large-framed standards. His parents peeked out timidly from the side alley they were hiding in. Darius' father recoiled at the sight of the body on the floor.

"Why'd you kill him?" he asked heatedly. Darius pointed calmly at the gun clutched in the corpse's hands.

"If it wasn't him, it would've been us." Darius' face darkened briefly before stepping forwards and pulling them from their alleyway. "Now, come on. If we don't hurry, others might come along."

As he moved, his dark trench coat flapped for a second, revealing a pair of foot-long daggers strapped to his belt. Darius picked up speed, forcing his parents to jog as well. He was starting to feel glad he'd taken up lessons from his uncle, who was a former military officer. At first, it'd simply been a fascination; not many people had a genuine war veteran for a relative.

"Come on, we need to get you somewhere safe," Darius said as they sprinted. "We need to go to the warehouses – it's our only hope."

They ran three blocks, skirting around groups and outright killing lone strangers. When they found the last street, the warehouse was clearly visible, only fifty meters away from their hiding point. Too many people – most likely a gang – were standing alert in the road, and all of their other paths to the warehouse were cut off.

"Mom, Dad, stay here," said Darius. He primed his gun. "I want you to hide while I handle this lot."

"But there are too many people there!" his mother protested. "You can't… you can't _murder_ your way through an entire crowd just to get us to safety!"

"Watch me," Darius growled. He busted open the lock on a nearby door and gestured for his parents to enter. Roughly slamming down the latch, he turned and slid down the concrete wall, sighing. Honestly, parents sometimes…

He regained his focus and checked his revolver. Reloading it, he snapped together the chamber and drew his knife. Steadying his nerve, he snuck up behind a person some distance away from the others on a patrol. Darius waited around a corner, and struck when the man got too close. Darius swiftly leapt up and dragged the man around the corner, immediately plunging his knife into the man's jugular. He instantly retracted his knife and ran.

Darius climbed a building, higher and higher till he burst through a door to see the gray ashen clouds overhead – a side effect of the massive volcanic eruptions across the world. Satisfied he was high enough, he carefully aimed for the man next to the warehouse. He fired off a single shot, his revolver's distinct _crack_ rolling through the window. Ignoring it, he began sniping down the men scattered around the warehouse.

"Damn," he said as another spray of bullets forced him back. He heard faint pounding downstairs – they'd found out where he was hiding. Not wasting a moment, Darius sprang up and hastily climbed above the door that led up. When the few guards had appeared to check the rooftop, he slid down and shot them both in the heart.

As they collapsed, he took off down the stairs, running back up and exchanging fire when necessary. Darius burst out the door and sprinted down the hallway, shooting out the light switch as he went. As the hallway plunged into darkness, he silently slipped past the group pursuing him. Drawing his knife, he sneaked behind each one in turn. Swiftly clapping a hand over the mouth of his targets and slicing their necks open with a decisive cut, he easily dispatched of the small team.

The lights turned back on as he swept out to reveal the wreckage left behind.

Sprinting out, he caught the gang off-guard, who expected him to stay inside. Running as fast as his legs would allow, Darius charged to dive behind a car, still firing off shots with pinpoint accuracy as he slid to dodge a wave of bullets that were racing towards his head. The thin metal sheen of the minivan he'd taken cover behind, however, was poor in protecting him.

Bullets quickly shredded apart its metal, but it had served its purpose. Darius pumped his legs, rushing towards a nearby building's corner as a bullet pierced a fuel line of the car. The hot lead ignited the gasoline as Darius hid behind the corner, an explosion blocking both party's vision. Taking advantage of the smoke and temporary stop as the men struggled to reload, Darius ran through the smoke, careful not to accidentally discharge a shot.

He came to a stop inside the warehouse, breathing heavily. Thankfully they hadn't noticed him. The smoke was beginning to clear away, more men stepping through it and searching for him. Darius' eyes roved the warehouse quickly, desperately looking for a weapon to use. His eyes came to a rest on a small box. Tearing off the lid, his eyes lit up at what was inside.

The window of the warehouse shattered as a small object sailed out from the inside, spewing a clear gas into its surroundings. It was a special type of grenade – one that would emit a highly flammable gas under pressure before igniting a spark. It was an anti-terrorist weapon meant to clear out large but confined spaces, but would work just as efficiently here.

The grenade ignited, causing the massive clouds of gas to race outwards as they caught fire, effectively and efficiently clearing out the entire area. Darius leapt out from hiding, locating the last remaining stragglers. With three quick pulls of the trigger, they fell, blood spouting from wounds in their heads. Another glance around the area told him that everyone was either roasted to death or just plain _dead_. Satisfied, he walked quickly back to where his parents were. He flung open the door…

To have his eyes greeted by an empty room.

At first, he thought he'd gotten the wrong room. Looking around in a panic, he turned around and ran to the surrounding buildings. As each door fell, still no one appeared. Darius was slowly starting to panic. He raced to the top of the building where he had originally told his parents to stay. As he burst through the door to the roof, he stopped short at the sight of three guns pointed into his face. Two of them were holding his parents up by their collars and armed with light pistols, and the third held a powerful assault rifle in his hands. All three of them had a strange mark emblazoned onto their shirts – a small figure of a crimson five-pointed star over a black circle with strange markings around the edge.

Darius' mother was unconscious, but his father coughed, a trickle of blood leaving his mouth. "I'm sorry… We were ambushed when we tried to leave…"

"Shut up," the person holding him grunted, squeezing his neck tighter. The gun pressed deeper into his temple. Darius growled softly.

"If you know what's good for ya, you'll drop that little gun o' yours and walk away," said the one with the assault rifle, raising it a little higher to prove his point.

Darius slowly, very slowly, dropped to one knee, and deposited the revolver on the ground. As he got back up, they watched him warily as his right hand slipped into his pocket. In it, he felt his fingers clasp the handle of the dagger. He turned and took a single step away. Behind his back, the guns lowered slightly, and his parents gasped.

Whirling faster than anyone else could see, Darius turned and flung his dagger, embedding it into the face of the assault rifle-wielding man, who dropped his gun and fell to the ground with an unpleasant squelching sound.

Not wasting a moment, Darius' arm snapped up and fired off a powerful round that decimated one man's head, causing him to drop his father. As the revolver's muzzle regained focus for its final shot, another trigger squeezed twice and silenced his father and mother. The gun swung about again and two shots rang out.

Two men fell to the ground, guns dropped at their feet.

Darius could tell from the gout of blood erupting from his target's chest that there was no hope for him. But his last had also found its mark. Saved by a timely misfire, the bullet had nonetheless pierced his left eye, shredding the tissue to nothing. Darius slumped to the ground as the blood poured out of his ruined socket. Whispering an apology to his parents, he let the inky black darkness steal over him…


	2. Steven Atmos

**And there it is! Another new chapter to replace the terrible old ones. It's likely this fanfic will be more humorous than it looks like it'll turn out, but don't worry. As a side note, there is going to be a chapter overhaul to extend it, adding in an extra section and modifying the whole thing.**

**XXX**

Darius awoke in a pool of blood several hours later. From atop the building, he could see the fading vestiges of the sun through the thick blanket of the black clouds overhead. He struggled to his feet, feeling another splash of blood dribble from his ruined eye. The blood vessels had closed up on their own while he was unconscious, simply leaving behind the empty socket. Even so, the pain was still tremendous. Enduring it, he tore a strap of cloth from his trench coat and quickly fashioned an eyepatch. Putting it on, he staggered towards the cold bodies of his parents.

He knew that there was no hope for them, from the moment he saw them fall. Even so, he murmured a vow under his breath. A vow that whatever force may have caused this damned apocalypse, he was going to make it pay. After a silent reprieve, he reached over and slipped off the black bag from around his father's shoulders. It contained food and water, an essential set of materials. As he settled the bag over his own figure, a tiny notebook fell to the ground, landing in another pile of remains. Darius blinked his good eye and picked it up, shaking blood off of it. The pages had almost immediately been soaked through, but as he flipped through the pages…

"… Donabridge?"

The word was part of a precious few pages that had been fortunate enough to not be hidden by the stains. Darius identified the word as the name of a street somewhere in the eastern area of town, but it wasn't anything special. His eye flicked back and forth between the untouched words.

"… So, a secret facility called Falzion," he muttered as he continued to peruse the bloody book. Several droplets were beginning to run down his hands. Ignoring it, he looked at the next clean lines. "Government projects, high-tech security… a contained power supply?"

This intrigued Darius. A power supply meant specifically for the facility would mean it wouldn't have to function on the city's power, which had been damaged. As for the security, a rough sketch in the later pages showed the way in. The only problem would be finding it. He looked around to see that the sun was going down even more. It was still possible to see, albeit barely. Preferring not to show anyone he was there, Darius felt the figure of a flashlight in his pocket, but chose not to draw it. Instead, he scooped up his gun from where he'd dropped it. Taking one last moment to glance back at his parents, he swept away into the night.

**XXX**

In the south-west side of the city, there was an inconspicuous building. It wasn't anything special, just an ordinary multi-storey apartment building. However, it had been cleaned out over the recent years, and was now used by a mafia group. Its corridors were a uniform slate-grey colour, with beige carpeting on every floor. Surprisingly enough, it had actually escaped the worst of the apocalypse, though it was to be somewhat expected; every single member that made up the notorious mafia was extremely well-trained. At the very top of the building was a large unlit room.

For several seconds there was silence. Then, a door at one end opened, throwing a thin ray of light into the room. Tables were laid out with countless maps along the visible end, with even more tacked up on the walls. A small closet in the corner was half-open, with countless books having already spilled out. Evidently, no one had bothered to clean up much of the room. Even so, the room hadn't a single speck of dust anywhere. A man with dark red hair stepped through the door, closing it behind him. In his left hand was a black sword, with cyan insets running along the sharp edge. The grip was of crimson leather, with a hilt of gold. In his right hand, he held a simple candle, which he raised slightly to cast more light into the room. At the other end of the room, a man with light brown hair sat at a gilded chair, his back to the door. In front of him were several photos and a small stack of books that looked ready to tip at any moment. A large pistol rested idly on the left side of the table, next to a bottle and a full glass of wine.

The one who had entered bowed, although he knew the other – the Seventh General, he was called – couldn't see him. In fact, he did see. He saw _everything_, strange as it may sound. Such was his power; the power of a Nightmare Hunter. Straightening again, he walked up within a foot of the chair and stopped, not daring to step any further. The General snapped his fingers carelessly, lighting a candle over his work. The shadows leapt up on the wall, forming eerie shapes and figures as the flames flickered and danced. Knowing he didn't need it anymore, the man put his own candle out and spoke, a German accent prodding at his words. "I still don't see why you always keep this room so dark."

The General stirred, and settled again. He reached out and collected his wine. Taking his time, he set it back down empty. "I have no need nor love for the light," he said. It was quiet, should have been almost inaudible, and yet it reverberated around the vast room as if he had shouted. "I do not believe either of us do."

"Of course, sir," the man said. "Nonetheless, I'm here to report that… that the Dominus has awoken. It has chosen its wielders."

The General remained silent for slightly longer. Breaking his reverie, he dusted aside several of the papers before him, and selected three from the stack. Laying them out before him, he regarded each one in turn. On the right side of his face, a blood red light flickered to life. "Not entirely out of my predictions, yet certainly not one I'd expected." He turned over one paper, revealing a picture of three circular glyphs. Each one was the shape of a perfect circle, its circumference rimmed with countless intricate runes. "Do you know what these are?"

"Yes sir," he said. He looked at the picture a moment longer before realizing where this was going. "Sir, do you intend to…?"

"Indeed," the General rumbled. Turning over another paper, it was filled with multiple pictures of a certain twelve-seal dais. "And it has already come to fruition."

"If so, then who is the third?"

The General turned over the last page, revealing a picture of a certain man with a Colt Anaconda revolver in his hands. "His powers will be those of Hatred; fitting, I suppose. He will be the strongest of the Dominus series." He refilled a glass of wine as he spoke. He took a small sip from it. "Keep watch over him. If his powers are manifest, he is almost certainly the one we are looking for."

"And if his powers remain dormant?"

The General extended his left hand palm-down and flipped it up, revealing one last tiny picture held delicately between his fingers. When the General spoke again, his voice contained traces of sadistic mirth. "Then _it_ will be ours."

And there was one last sound, much like one made by a wine glass smashed to pieces in an iron grip.

**XXX**

Darius sighed quietly as a looter slid slowly down the lamp post, leaving behind a trail of blood. Really, there were so many people jumping him it wasn't even funny. Even so, they weren't much more than just a mere nuisance; a missing eye tends to throw off one's aim, but his near-preternatural aiming wasn't hit too hard by it. Rather, it was just his depth perception that was suffering. Honestly, he didn't think it was possible for someone to seem so close and far simultaneously…

Tossing aside a spent shell and replacing it with a fresh round, he shone his flashlight around briefly, making sure that no one else was around. After panning the light back and forth, he was satisfied he was safe. Flicking it off, he reached down and picked up a packet of batteries and a can of soup from the looter's backpack. He turned over the tiny Medusa pistol in the looter's hands uninterestedly, then threw it aside and stood up as he thought of what to do next.

It wasn't likely he would survive for very long if he stayed in one place, which was why he was constantly on the go. On the other hand, his revolver was still a custom-brand, and so needed a supply of ammunition that could probably only be fed by a periodically visited munitions factory. He had plenty of bullets left to spare, but he still didn't feel like taking his chances. Seeing as he didn't know where any of the factories were, he assumed they would be in an out-of-the-way area of the city, where people wouldn't be bothered by the fumes.

Even so, it might be best to head downtown. After all, there was probably at least a few leftover stores or houses that weren't raided yet. Darius turned on his flashlight and stepped silently into the darkness. In the silence of the night, every little noise could be heard. The ash-covered ground, thankfully, was enough to muffle his footsteps to almost unnoticeable. The same could not be said, however, for the next group Darius came upon.

Darius froze as he heard a scuffling noise from the end of the street, as if two people had gotten in a fight. There was a solid _thump_ that echoed out from the wall as someone was slammed against it. As they passed under the flickering street light, he could catch a glimpse of a dark-haired, slightly overweight man with speckles of gray hairs beginning to show amidst the dark. The one pinning him had his face hidden by a hood, as with the three other men with him. Clearly, they'd tried giving this (old?) man the jump to loot him for anything useful.

"Search him," one of the looters barked. The remaining two men swiftly moved in, scrounging about the unfortunate man, who struggled as he was held tightly against the wall. Each move was met with a swift blow to the face or stomach, knocking the wind out of him. A looter pulled a pistol out of the man's pocket and pointed it at him. "Now, stay still, old man. Just stay still, and we'll let you be on your way. All we need from you is the Shard, capiche?"

"Nnn…" the man had just enough cohesive wit to break free of the one holding him and delivered a knee into the man's groin. As he collapsed in agony, he turned to face the others, one of whom shot him in the leg, just below the middle of the thigh. He fell, howling with pain. He forced open one eye to glare at his captors. "As if I'd let you have _that…_"

"We're not asking for your permission," a new voice said. Laced with a soft German accent and almost gentlemanly ring, the red-haired newcomer stepped easily across the street – leaving faint cyan prints in the ash, Darius noted.

"I'm afraid we really do need the Shard," he said. "Relax, and we'll let you go free. Please, hold still for a moment longer."

"Never," the man growled. He attempted to lash out with his good leg, but the kick was stopped with an easy movement. A blue trench coat fell loosely around him, reaching to just above his ankles, one of which had been extended in what was clearly a deceptively relaxed movement to block the kick. Sighing, he reached down, hand outstretched. In the middle of his palm, a figure burned to life. It was a brightly glowing neon blue shape. The actual appearance itself could not be seen from Darius' position, but the man at his feet panicked. Blue light exploded forth from his hand, and the man went limp. For several seconds, they remained dead still. Then, a glowing blue wisp of smoke rose out of the fallen one's mouth. The redhead closed his hand around it, and when he opened it again, there was a glowing blue orb the size of a tennis ball in his hand.

_What the hell?_ wondered Darius as he aimed his revolver. But something stayed his hand... A feeling that he was not alone in this shadowed alley.

At that moment, the bluecoat released the orb, letting it dissipate. A smile appeared as he addressed the looters. "The Shard is contained in his jacket; on the interior, hidden inside the stuffing. I'm afraid you'll have to tear it open."

"Yes, sir," they muttered as they pulled off his coat. Reaching in, they pulled out what probably used to be a circle of who knows what, except it had been reduced to a tiny piece of the circumference. Countless minuscule runes ran the smooth edge, separated from the rest of the Shard with another circular ring, almost resembling a pizza crust. What looked to be the spine of some sort of creature etched across the rest of it. If it were whole, Darius estimated it would be the size of a large dinner plate. The looter passed it to the redhead.

"Excellent," he said as he ran a finger along the finely sculpted outer edge. He looked at the bleeding man at his feet with dismissive sky-blue eyes. "Richard, do with him what you will."

"What…?" the old man struggled to rise. "I thought you said you'd let me go free… You have the Shard!"

"I'm sorry, but Richard here has been itching for a bit of fun," the man said. His voice almost sounded apologetic. "Don't worry, he won't _kill _you."

And with that, he swept back into the shadows. For the briefest moment, a sky-blue pentagram formed under his feet and he vanished, trailing an impossibly fast path. The only remaining vestige of his appearance was the afterimage of the rapidly fading pentagram. Darius thought hard about what he had just seen. The thudding sounds caused by the looters reminded him that he still had something to do.

"Alright, finish looting him," one of the men said. He moved forward, just as Darius stuck his head and gun out from behind the corner and fired.

"_What the fuck!?_" another looter shouted as his nearest companion's chest erupted, covering him with blood. Darius leapt up from his hiding spot and with two more shots, fell all but one of the looters. Reacting quickly, the man stepped forward and made to crush Darius' skull with a sledgehammer blow.

A dagger pierced his heart, driven by Darius' powerful strike, exploding out the other side with a shower of blood. Holding the knife in place as the man went through his death throes, Darius shot him once in the head at point-blank range. The body fell still. Darius brought up one foot and impassively kicked off the corpse. He looked down at the old man to find that he had vomited; the splatter on the ground all too obvious.

"Keep your lunch down," Darius advised as another three bullets were loaded into his Anaconda. "You never know when you'll eat next."

Panting, the man said, "Thanks, I guess. But… who are you?"

"The name's Darius Loyhrs," he said, extending a hand. Taking it gratefully, the older of the two stood, holding back another rush of bile.

"Sorry, blood makes me nauseous… anyways, I'm Steven Atmos," he said. "I worked at the factories in the north."

"Mmm," said Darius. He continued checking over the dead bodies, removing whatever materials would prove useful. "Are you hurt much?"

Steven flinched as he stretched his legs. "Yeah. My left leg is busted, I think the bullet went through, but my right is a little better."

Darius hesitated for a moment, briefly thinking of abandoning this crippled man. But how cruel would that be? Juggling his options, he decided it might be better to bring Steven with him. After all, he might prove helpful. He unslung his pack and brought out a roll of gauze. "Alright, relax your leg; I'll be able to handle the wound better."

"Wait, what? No!" Darius raised his head and gazed at him stonily. Steven continued. "I still don't trust you. Besides, I can bandage myself."

Darius responded immediately. "One, if I wanted you dead, I would've just shot you. Two, no, you can't. Three, would you rather I left you out here? People probably heard the gunshots, even though it's the dead of night."

Steven sighed and nodded silently. Darius extended a hand, which Steven accepted. Carefully swinging the older man's arm over his shoulders, Darius helped him to his feet. "I'll bandage you when we find a safe house. Until then, just bear with it."

"Gee, you must be fun at parties," Steven muttered.


	3. The Embodiment

**Alright, just a quick note I probably should have covered earlier:  
**

**Darius Loyhrs looks nothing like Darius from League of Legends, or the Persian Emperor Darius I. So put that idea out of your head.**

**Also note that some chapters will have 'themes', AKA songs that _really_ help build the vibe. Do not own any songs, blah blah blah, so on and so on. To use them, copy the '/watch?v=whatever', open YouTube, and paste it onto the end. Replacing YouTube with ' .com' might make it a little better.**

**Anyways, R&R, etc etc and enjoy yet another chapter of Retribution!**

**XXX**

"Alright," said Darius as he finally stood, having finished bandaging the wounded Steven. "We should be safe for now."

The two of them had traveled for about an hour before finding a small, out of the way house that had escaped detection from everyone. It was a windy and chilly night; their tracks in the thick ash that had settled on the ground would be rapidly covered. Thunder crackled overhead, but that was becoming increasingly common; ash clouds cause a lot more friction than water clouds.

"Thanks, I appreciate it," Steven said.

"Don't mention it," said Darius. Reaching into his pack, he dug out two cans of peach syrup. He handed one to Steven and opened his own to drink it, not bothering with a spoon. He wiped his mouth off with his right sleeve. After a moment of thought, he said, "Where did you come from? You know, before the… well, Apocalypse would probably be the best word."

"Well, I guess I do owe you a lot." Steven shifted in his chair for a moment before he began. "I lived in the southern end of the city. It's a big city, right? Anyways, south Jalcuk is probably the most peaceful section, there's the police station and fire station and everything. Well, my point is that there really isn't anything I can speak of. My dad was a lawyer; Mom passed away because of some disease she'd caught from a terminally ill person in the hospital where she worked."

"I'm sorry," Darius said in a quiet voice. There wasn't any real sincerity or conviction, but Darius could feel his chest pounding. Sure, on the outside he looked like some cold, remorseless machine, but he was actually a good deal more sentimental than just about anybody. Emotions tend to get in the way of things a lot.

Steven didn't mind. "Nah, it's alright, she died when I was four. My dad took care of me on his own, and brought me hunting every few weeks or so when I turned twelve. He was a great man, he taught me how to live in the wilderness – not that I needed it back then. He… also passed away four years ago. Dad was always strong, but old age got him in the end...

"I've been living on my own for a while as an assistant in some astrophysics institution. It was hell to get in with only a bachelor's degree, but I scraped by. I never had any kids, and never was interested either. Now, I feel a little bad about my decision. Veronica would've flayed me alive."

"Who's Veronica?" inquired Darius.

"She was my wife; we met in university. Of course, she went and died about three years after we were wed. It's part of the reason I took up my job; everyone around me kept _dying._" A ripple of frustration ran through his voice. "And now they're all dead."

Darius allowed him a couple minutes of silent fuming. When he ticked off three minutes in his mind, he spoke. "Thanks for telling me all of this. I just need to know another thing; what are these Shards those people who attacked you were talking about?"

"I have no idea," Steven sighed. Catching Darius' flicker of shock and astonishment, he quickly added, "It wasn't my fault! Mom's side of the family had carried down a fragment of an ancient glyph said to channel the power of a demon. None of us knew what it was for.

"But I do know something. Mom used to keep a really, _really_ old and thick book in her cabinet and never allowed me to see it. After she died, I went back to see the book. And Darius… Darius, it was incredible. I still don't know how she preserved it for all these years. It's simply amazing.

"The book was only half-written, but that was because it was a _diary._ Every member of Mom's family had written their own life in it. Yeah, that's how thick it was. It was made from leather, and crinkly yellow pages. The pages that no one had written on looked new, like they were being replaced every several years or something. So I began from the very first page, and saw the date of the first entry."

"What did it say?" Darius' excitement was beginning to get the better of him.

"Diamond, the Seventh. _184,_" Steven added.

Darius went into shock for a moment, disbelief etched clearly all over his face. A roll of gauze fell from his limp hand, rolling away under the table, completely ignored by Darius. "That's… not possible."

Measurements of the year by such items were only used in the time of the first human, Steve. They were much the same as modern months, with all the same days, but recorded names were different. For instance, June was the Creeper and July was the Zombie. On top of that, the year was recorded.

"I'd show it to you, but the papers burnt down when my house was set on fire," said Steven. "But what was really important was that some of it talked about some sort of creature called an Embodiment. They have these weird powers; the book never went into detail about it. From what I pieced together, they come from another dimension. They're these really creepy demons that are said to gain power from those that they kill. Their existence brings death and disease wherever they go.

"It's said that they can take three forms; the form of a tall human with black hair and glowing green eyes is the first. Their true form is a seething mass of shadows that reform into any shape, depending on what`s needed, though they prefer the form of a winged demon, like a giant featureless imp. They can be a living sword, a colossal hand, a purple-eyed monstrosity, you name it. The presence of an Embodiment…"

Steven stopped. "Take your time," said Darius.

Steven took a deep breath and continued. "You can tell when an Embodiment is nearby because of what they can do. The touch of an Embodiment will cause your body to slowly decay and rot away, even if it looks like a harmless cloud of smoke. Hell, just getting close to an Embodiment will probably leave you bedridden with horrible illnesses for weeks, if not months. On top of that, they're very charismatic, I guess you could say.

"By that, I mean a humanoid Embodiment can influence just about anyone, twist them to their will before killing them. I searched through my mom's book; according to it, almost every major war and conflict in history was sparked by the Embodiments. They act like a hive mind on top of everything else – get seen by one and they'll all come swarming. Only thing holding them back is how rare they are. Apparently, they all got banished to the world they came from after some inter-dimensional war. Oh, and…

"They're controlled by some creature called a 'Fallen Angel'."

"Fallen Angel?" Darius was on edge. Whenever those words came out, however rare they were, they almost always meant a certain figure of 'mythology'. But that couldn't be _him_…

Could it?

Shaking his head to dispel his thoughts, Darius put down his now-empty can and unfurled a map he had found in his father's satchel. "Now, we've probably dawdled long enough. Thanks for telling me all of that, but let's focus on our next choice of movement, alright?"

Seeing Steven's nod, Darius continued. "We probably won't last long on the road. Every place with worth has probably been looted already, so there won't be anything we can take. We also have limited ammunition, and we're bound to run out eventually. We'd best head out to central downtown."

"Why downtown? I thought that place is being overrun by street gangs…"

"It still is." Steven looked up at the one-eyed man in slight shock.

"You can't possibly think –"

"I am."

"Darius, we are _not_ storming the central sector of Jalcuk!"

The man in question sighed and brought out another map, pointing to a small house at the northwest side of the city. "This belonged to my uncle," Darius explained. "He's dead now, but he served in a war three years ago and kept all his things hidden in his home. I doubt anyone's found it, so we can head down and get the things he left behind."

"What did he hide there…?" For some reason, Steven wasn't sure if he wanted to know.

"Oh, nothing special, just a collection of submachine guns, hand grenades, ammo clips, and a hundred other things," came the deadpan reply.

"…"

"…"

"Oh."

**XXX**

"You win again, General. Quite the risk you took there, hmm?"

"…"

The man scooped his cards into the deck and shuffled them idly. A messy mane of unkempt dark red hair framed his face. He brushed away a particularly irritating strand and began dealing out the cards to the two people at the table with him. Two cards to himself, the sinister red-eyed General, and an extremely muscular man. The last in particular was quite tall, almost twice the height of the dealer, with his muscles straining against his gunmetal coloured t-shirt. His face was lost in shadow, and as he moved, a faint metallic clinking noise could be heard. Thick, calloused hands picked up his two cards with surprising dexterity.

"Raise fifty," murmured the read-haired man, sliding a small pile of poker chips to the center of their table. A single bare, flickering light bulb swung above their heads. The General wordlessly added his own chips to the pile. The two men looked at the bulky mass that was their remaining player. "Your move, Michael."

The muscular one, Michael, tilted his head as he surveyed the three cards on the table. When he spoke, his voice was deep and gravelly. "Very well."

Three knocks on the door as the redhead tried to make his move. Sky-blue eyes flickered towards the door as he tapped his foot once against the floor. The door creaked open, sending a sliver of light into their poker room as a black-haired man dressed in beige fatigues stepped halfway through the door. Over the left side of the fatigue's chest was a five-pointed crimson star; a pentagram. "Um, Mr. Kiegnaster?"

"What is it, Peter?" inquired the redhead. His voice was patient and kindly, as always.

"Mr. Kiegnaster, sir… The program is near completion."

"Ah, thank you." Kiegnaster turned to face the table again. Unsurprisingly, he had won again. Some thought his play style might be reckless, but there was more to it. Oh, so much more to it.

Rather like that war so many years ago…

Raking in the chips from the game, he stood. "General?"

The man in question sloshed his glass of wine back and forth, much as he always did. One red eye slid from the glass to Kiegnaster's face. "Permission granted," rumbled the shadowed specter. Kiegnaster bowed and took his leave with Peter.

"Has the program fully replicated?" asked Kiegnaster as they walked down the hallway. The walls and ceiling were a calming diamond-patterned beige, and the floor was a checkerboard carpet, alternating between a vibrant blood-red and red so dark it was all but pitch-black. Small chandeliers hung from the ceiling by iron chains, casting a warm orange glow over the hall.

"Yes," said Peter. He was rather at ease; Kiegnaster was known for being a rather benevolent boss. "All we need is the wielder's, well…"

"Blood, yes, I know." Kiegnaster continued striding down the hallway in long but measured steps. They soon came to a stop at a pair of solid steel doors that blocked the end of the hallway. Throwing them open, Kiegnaster continued his small walk. Several scientists snapped to attention, these ones emblazoned with a tiny green shriveled skeleton in the middle of their star badges. The redhead waved them off and kept walking, his eyes focused on the project embedded in the far wall.

A black sword floated tip-down in a bubbling green liquid. Kiegnaster stepped up to it, running a long, thin finger along the glass encasing it. The sword itself was designed with a slanted tip, so that it looked almost like a long black parallelogram. Along its sharp side and the slanted edge was a pure white colouring. The hilt was made of what appeared to be an impossible mixture of diamond and gold – it shone with a beautiful glint in the way only diamonds do, although the actual design itself was quite clearly golden. The grip of the sword was made of white leather, just like the edge of the sword. The whole thing seemed almost… _empty._

And soon, it would be filled.

"It is complete?"

"We could not fully replicate the original's powers – it will be slightly weaker than the one we saw, but after the sacrifice, it will be complete, yes."

"Understood. Release the locks."

The glass hissed, steam erupting from the vents as it slowly split down the middle, revealing that the liquid was actually an almost jelly-like substance. Kiegnaster reached into the depths of his neon blue trench coat and pulled out a large IV bag filled with his own blood over the past few months. Preserved properly, it had not congealed within the bag. Carefully reaching in, he seized the sword by the grip and pulled it out. With nothing to support or be supported with, the preservation jelly collapsed, draining away at Kiegnaster's feet. He opened the IV bag and spilled the contents over the blade, watching as the white portions of the blade glowed with a bright light. Then, he flipped the sword expertly over in a backhand grip –

– and with one fluid movement, sliced a deep gash into his side. A yell of pain slipped free from his lips as blood dripped to the floor. Holding the sword in the same place, his grimace of agony curled into a light smile as he felt the sword begin to dissolve in his hands.

In but a few seconds, it turned to a black liquid, suspended in mid-air, and then was _sucked_ into Kiegnaster's body. The wound in his side immediately closed as Kiegnaster slumped over, falling to his hands and knees, eyes shut. His small smile widened into a grin as he opened his mouth slightly, letting a curl of black smoke escape. He spent several seconds in that same position as the scientists watched on warily…

… and rose.

As he stood, a black lightning bolt poured from the fingertips of his left hand. They swirled around each other, spinning tighter and tighter until they formed the very same sword that had been preserved within the green jelly, but with three differences. The white edge of the blade had turned blood red, and the grip became a bright sky-blue – the same colour as Kiegnaster's eyes. The whole sword itself was oozing clearly visible trails of black energy into the air around it as it crackled with dark energy.

"Sir, are you alright?" asked Peter as he stepped forward, only to find his outstretched hand arrested by a very nearly bone-crushing grip as Kiegnaster straightened to his full height. His eyes opened, three colours spinning around his pupils in his irises. Blue, red, black, blue, red, black, they spun about in a battle for dominance of this body, until both eyes settled.

His left eye was blue as it had always been, but his right eye now contained a crimson pentagram in the place of an iris. The pupil itself had turned dark red.

"… So, this is Eksenjur, the Sword of the Damned," murmured Kiegnaster. He ran a thumb along the cursed sword's sharp edge, noting that the blood the dribbled out was black, not red. "Certainly quite an interesting weapon.

"Thank you, Peter. I must see the General now."

"On such short notice?" Peter seemed shocked. "But you just arrived!"

"I know," Kiegnaster sighed. "I know. It's just… rules are rules, right? It's not like I can just disband and form meetings with the Seventh General whenever I feel like it, right?"

"I-I understand," muttered Peter. "We'll report to you later, sir."

"Excellent." With that, Joshua Kiegnaster turned with a flourish of his coat. As he shut the steel doors behind him, his face was instantly overcome with pain and he fell to the ground, sliding to the ground as he leaned against the wall. There was a warm, metallic taste in his mouth. Raising his right hand, he felt at the corner as he panted slightly, realizing that his blood was dribbling out of his mouth.

Unbeknownst to those scientists, what Kiegnaster had learned during his months of research was that such a blood sacrifice to _Him_ would drain you on incredible scales, both physically and mentally. It would empty you of half of the blood that pumped through your veins, leeched from your mind your sanity unless you were truly prepared.

"Fuckin'…" Kiegnaster leaned heavily on the wall as a spasm wracked his body. He coughed slightly, a bubble of blood forming and bursting on his lips. And yet, despite all of this, he felt oddly… powerful. Something that was not blood was pumping in his veins – something greater and worse at the same time. "Stupid cursed sword… Have to… see Gabriel…"

Still half-conscious, he dragged himself down the identical hallways, leaving behind a trail of steaming black blood.


	4. An Unexpected Encounter

"Are you sure about this?" whispered Steven as they hid behind the trees surrounding the house they were targeting. Supposedly, Darius' uncle should have left a stash of military-grade weaponry somewhere in the house, and the two intended to find it.

Naturally, it wasn't that easy.

The house was utterly crawling with looters who had apparently caught wind of the hidden stash and were frisking the house. It was clearly not just some ragtag bunch of misfits; these were trained men. Darius could tell simply from the way the ones outside were holding their guns (assault rifles, surprisingly). But if Darius' memories served him well enough, they'd never find it.

After all, what kind of person would think to look inside the _fireplace_, of all places?

"We're already here," murmured Darius. "We're not stopping."

"But how are we going to break through all of these people?"

"Ever heard of frag grenades?"

Steven blanched. "You can't possibly…"

Darius looked towards the house with a look of grim anticipation. He'd pulled a hand grenade from the warehouse he had assaulted, and now planned to put it to use. He pulled the pin from the grenade and started the countdown in his mind.

_Five…_

No one had noticed him in the half-light under the ashen clouds. A guard passed by them, completely failing to see them through the dense bush.

_Four…_

A small green light appeared in one of the house's shadows, flitting along the wall before moving into a ray of light and causing Darius to lose it.

_Three…_

_Sniper,_ Darius realized as the green light appeared once again on one man's forehead, unnoticed by anyone else. Any second now…

_Two…_

The light focused and grew slightly, staying stock-still as it did. Darius felt his fingers twitch…

_Now!_

Darius sprung up and flung the grenade. A perfect throw, it sailed through a window and landed as its timer ran out, filling several rooms with a burst of flame and running cracks along the wall. At that same instant, the green light disappeared as its target's head exploded, followed by the distinct _crack_ of a sniper rifle. Darius and Steven drew their weapons as one and ran in opposite directions as a bullet tore into the ground where they were standing just a moment previously. Darius called out a quick order to Steven. "Stall those looters, Steven! I'll get the sniper."

Darius heard another _crack_, and another cry from behind him. Ignoring it, he kept running. Almost every two seconds, another shot would fire, though not all were accurate. Darius hid behind a tree and closed his eyes, trying to zoom in on the sniper's position. Another gunshot from that same rifle, and another, and another. They were all coming from…

Directly above him?

A twig fell, bouncing off his shoulder and prompting him to look up. Several leaves fluttered down as he identified the figure above him, who looked down at _him_. Darius watched the sniper shoulder the large rifle and strap it to its back effortlessly, then began to run, _while still in the treetops._ A blue cloak trailed the sniper, the long barrel of the sniper rifle jutting out prominently over it.

"What the hell?" exclaimed Darius as he holstered his revolver and raised a set of twin daggers. He couldn't let the sniper get distance between them…

Driving the knives into the aged bark of the tree, Darius climbed to a low, thick branch. Crouching down to maintain his balance, he steadied himself –

And winced as a bullet slammed into the bark less than an inch from his face.

'Get back here," he growled. Picking up speed carefully, Darius leapt from branch to branch deftly, seizing each roughly stable one as it passed. The figure was still sprinting far more gracefully, bounding from tree to tree as if he weighed no more than a feather. "I said, _get back here!_"

Darius finally found himself within his opponent's range. He threw all caution to the winds and leapt, just as the sniper did the exact same.

_CRASH!_

Both sides met in mid-air, tumbling head over heels as they hit the ground. Darius gritted his teeth as he slammed roughly into a tree, thankfully stopping him from breaking something important; a bruised body was a fair price for no broken bones. His opponent could not say the same. Instead, the figure whirled, a blue coat trailing its movement. Hitting the ground easily, the sniper let his fall turn rapidly into a roll, which in turn let the sniper pull himself into what looked like a spinning handstand. Darius watched the incredible feat of acrobatics, then realized that there was a large black figure mixed in with the blue.

The sniper rifle came up as the hooded sniper arrested his spin and fired.

Darius threw himself into a forwards somersault, just barely dodging the bullet as it singed his hair, screaming overhead as he switched from rolling to running in less than a second –

His opponent drew his _own_ dagger and raised it to block Darius' otherwise-fatal slice. Except it was less of a knife, and much more of a wickedly sharp machete, almost three foot long. It qualified more of a short sword than a long dagger. It seemed the sniper only had one, however, because he was forced to sidestep Darius' assault with his second knife. Flipping his daggers into a backhand grip, Darius charged again and feinted for the sniper's leg, then abruptly cutting off to attempt beheading the sniper.

"Shit!" Darius whipped his head backwards to avoid the machete, which stabbed forward to tear off _his _head. Unlike his twin daggers, the machete was likely wide enough to decapitate him with one stroke. Leaping backwards, Darius brought himself out of the machete's effective range, challenging his opponent to come closer.

"…"

"…"

"…"

"…"

"…"

Tumbleweed rolled past.

"Uh, are you going to attack me, or…?" Darius let the question fall. "Ah, fuck it."

He stowed a dagger away, drawing his trusty Colt Anaconda revolver. With it in hand, he barrelled back into the fray. The machete swung in from his right to cleave him in half, and was swiftly blocked by Darius' knife, now in his less-favoured right hand. To his surprise, as he brought the gun to bear, the sniper twisted, raking the machete along the dagger's jagged edge and twirling the machete expertly. Caught between having his wrist sprained and dropping the dagger, he went for the latter.

The machete reached back and plunged down for a killing blow –

Darius _shot_ the machete, the supersonic bullet knocking his opponent off balance. Seizing his chance, Darius ducked and rolled behind the sniper and, before he knew what was happening, Darius lunged for his exposed back. Grabbing the sniper by the neck, Darius spun, throwing his weight into tossing the surprisingly light sniper to the ground. To his surprise, a hand grabbed him by the collar, pulling him down with the man he'd tossed. Both fell to the ground, rolling to try and gain the upper hand. Darius delivered a sucker punch to his opponent, causing him to retch and cough. Once again using his weight to his advantage, he raised the sniper in his right hand and slammed the sniper into the nearest tree, the shock finally jolting the machete from his hand. Breathing heavily, Darius reached up to tear off his opponent's hood…

An orange-haired girl slightly younger than he was glared back at him defiantly, breathing just as heavily.

Darius twitched, the only sign of his surprise. Of all people, he was trying to gut a girl? Quickly regaining focus, he pulled out his gun and pointed it into the girl's face. "I should just kill you right now and leave the body to the wolves," he said, finger itching to pull the trigger. "But I've got bigger fish to fry. Keep out of my way, and don't bother following me, because I _will_ kill you."

Darius looked into her glittering green eyes. "I'm also not one to kill a girl so readily." Once again grabbing her by the collar (much more gently, the girl noticed), he threw her aside and continued on his way. "Scram."

The girl, feeling somewhat shocked and lost, muttered despondently, "But… you attacked me first." Then she stomped a fuming foot on the ground. "Not fair!"

Taking a moment to calm her breathing, she sheathed her machete at her left hip and strapped the sniper rifle to her back, putting her hood up once again. Just before she left, she took another look at the retreating figure of Darius Loyhrs.

Alexa Cagnes smiled slightly. "Well, I shouldn't be getting steamed up. We'll be meeting again, that's for sure."

**XXX**

Kiegnaster looked uneasily at the four empty wine bottles that lay broken around the Seventh General's feet. He knew that the more bottles he saw, the more agitated the General was, and if they were broken, then it meant some horrible had transpired.

He winced and clapped a hand to his side silently. True to his word, the General had purged the negative effects of the Erensilos, though the madness was left for Kiegnaster to fight. There was nothing that could be done. Even so, Kiegnaster was grateful – the General rarely did anything like that, if ever. Also, some of his organs would bubble and writhe in the most painful way possible, but such was a small side effect.

"Sir," Kiegnaster tried. "What has happened?"

The powerful General shifted, as if coming out of a stupor. "Hmm?"

"Sir… what happened?"

"_He_ happened," the General spat. "I thought we could bargain, but no… I should have expected him to do this…"

"Sir, you don't mean… _he_ escaped?" Kiegnaster felt a rush of fear.

"Yes," the General frowned. "It seems our greatest project has backfired. Of course, I should have known my power was not enough to restrain such a force; you are not to blame."

Kiegnaster relaxed. The General was just, but when he found you guilty, the punishments were horrifying. "Then who…?"

"I am to blame," the General growled. "I underestimated him. And he holds Agony, too… he must be stopped. That might is too great for even me to contain."

"Sir, is Dominus really…?"

"It is," he confirmed. He raised his glass of wine to his lips and set it down again afterwards. The remaining alcoholic drink floated out of the glass, forming a ball. "Your theories were right; it seems that Dominus must be united. However, its original form was shattered." The ball broke into three pieces, forming their own small orbs, glistening in the half-light. "If we wish for their power, we must unite them."

"But sir, is that not impossible?"

"That is where you are wrong." The General's reply was curt and clipped as the wine returned to its glass, almost meekly. "There _is_ a way to unite them; bring the bearers together. All three must be in unison to unleash its power. However, I do not believe it likely that they will comply. We must use the second option."

Kiegnaster waited on tenterhooks as the General drank the last of his wine, tipping the final drop into his mouth. He tossed it aside carelessly. Just before it hit the wall, it stopped in mid-air and floated to tap gently upon the floor. Just visible in the abyssal darkness of the General's chambers, a smile danced on his lips as he spoke.

"Kill them."

**XXX**

"Talk, damn you!" Darius tightened his grip on the unlucky man's neck. When he had returned, he had successfully stormed the small adobe, with Steven's assistance. Thankfully, Steven had returned with a still-conscious man in tow, who had apparently been trying to escape. And now, here they were, trying to squeeze information out of him.

Darius glanced down at the man's beige jacket. He'd seen that somewhere before…

His eye locked onto the pentagram stitched over his heart.

"Who sent you?" growled Darius, loosening his grip just enough to allow the man to talk. Fixing him with a disdainful eye, he spat at him. Darius wiped away the spit from his cheek irritably. He could feel the muscles around his left eye twitching – a tic that had plagued him for years. The man made to spit again –

"Oof!" Darius slammed him against the wall, hearing an unpleasant crack from his captive's head. He went limp, and Darius shook his head in resignation. Reaching down, he cut the five-pointed star from the unconscious man's jacket, and turned to leave.

"Dammit," he muttered. Looking around, he saw Steven. "Come on, we need those supplies. Let's get moving."

"Gotcha," he confirmed.

They turned to leave, but as they did, something caught Darius' attention on his peripheral. The unconscious looter wasn't unconscious at all. The concealed pistol was already aimed at him, finger tightening on the trigger –

_BANG!_

The man's head exploded before either Darius or Steven could react. Steven sprang back from the decapitated corpse, but Darius simply looked to the treetops. Two hundred feet away, he saw a faint blue figure sling a sniper rifle over their back and began to walk away. He let out what might have been a half-laugh and walked into the house, hauling a gagging Steven with him.


End file.
